


i'll put down my roots when i'm dead

by Anonymous



Series: dream smp shorts [7]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Amnesia, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Character Study, Dream Smp, Explosions, Introspection, Recovered Memories, Temporary Amnesia, death as in he acknowledges hes dead, ghostbur! hell yeah, kind of? ehhh, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:00:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27708002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Wilbur wakes up. He isn't sure of much beyond his name, but he'll figure it out.
Relationships: ghostbur eh?, i hesitate to put anything in here this is just a character study
Series: dream smp shorts [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2001529
Kudos: 63
Collections: Anonymous





	i'll put down my roots when i'm dead

**Author's Note:**

> so, that war huh? ghostbur really gave me some inspiration, thank god because i really wanted to write something for what had happened.  
> this is a character study type thing more than anything  
> yes the title is from since i saw vienna we all know it

_The pressing of a button, an explosion causing his ears to ring, screaming, and the sting of a sword sliding between his ribs as a quiet apology is muttered to him. Everything is so wondrously dark after that._

_First and foremost, he was a president._

_But in the end, he was a traitor._

* * *

The ghost blinks, tired eyes opening to stare at an azure sky, fluffy clouds drifting overhead. He wonders, for a moment, where he is as he sits up, slumping as he rubs his head. A quick glance around doesn’t tell him much beyond a field, with an oak forest in the distance. Or what looked like oak, anyway - it was much too blurry. 

The ghost hums, rubbing his eyes. He needs glasses. Does he wear glasses? He thinks so. He did at one point. He isn’t all that sure. 

He wasn’t sure of much of anything right now, not even his own name. 

_My name_ . The thought bounces around in his head. What was his name? It’s on the tip of his tongue, he can _just barely_ reach it, what is it-

And then he’s distracted, as someone sits down in the grass beside him, coughing. 

He glances. it’s a man, similar in age to him. Some sort of goat hybrid with spiralled horns and wearing a baby blue sweater. It looks odd. He feels like the other should be wearing something else, something more.. formal. It hurts his head thinking about it. 

“Hello,” he greets amicably nonetheless, tilting his head. 

“... Hey.” The other man was frowning, blinking rapidly as if the sunlight was hurting his eyes. “Hey, who- who are you?”

“I’m…” the ghost starts, trailing off. Who is he? A name comes to mind. “I’m Wilbur, I think.”

“You think?” the hybrid eyes him with raised eyebrows. 

_Wilbur_. Yes, that name sounds right. “No, I- I’m sure. I’m Wilbur. Who are you? I don’t think I.. I don’t remember you.”

“I, uh…,” he coughed, hand clutching the front of that blue sweater. “I don’t remember me either.”

“Oh.” Wilbur blinked. “That’s okay.”

Silence is shared between them for a bit.

“Where are we?” the man asks after a while. 

“You know…” Wilbur looks up at the sky again, counting the clouds. “I’m not really sure.”

* * *

He falls asleep at some point, still beside the goat hybrid in the blue sweater. When he awakens, he’s no longer in that soft, sunny field - instead he’s alone, in a cave with a hole blown into the side of it. 

* * *

Wilbur sits on his own for a while, finding a quiet cliff overlooking the sea. He smells the salty ocean breeze, breathes in the air, and feels a sense of familiarity. He remembers this. What else is he going to remember, he wonders? Who is he, what did he do with his life?

He already knows he’s dead. He can see the grayed out tinge of his skin, knows it should be so much more saturated. He sees the yellow sweater that he woke up in, and while this sweater is precious and so, so familiar to him, he knows that in his life he hadn’t worn it for a very long time. He remembers the other outfits. One, fit for a revolutionary and later- later, something else. A president, his mind supplies. 

Maybe. 

He also remembers a haphazard trench coat thrown over a simple tank top and black pants, remembers the fingerless gloves that stretched over his hand and the _stomp_ of his boots against the stone floor of the ravine - the ravine. 

The ravine. 

He remembers a ravine. He isn’t sure what it means. 

Wilbur wanders most of the time. He isn’t sure where he’s supposed to be. He feels drawn to that cave he woke up in, the one with the hole blown in it, that leads to a crater in the middle of the land. He keeps going back to it. he doesn’t know why. He thinks - knows? - that he had something to do with it, the crater. 

Maybe he caused it. 

If he thinks hard enough about it, he can remember a blinding explosion that left his ears ringing, barely able to hear at all. 

Wilbur doesn’t like to think much about it. 

But he sits anyways, in the middle of that cave, back to the tunnel behind him (tunnels, tunnels, he remembers tunnels - different ones that were large, long, leading from- he doesn’t know where they went) and stares. Stares at the crater in front of him. There’s structures in it, now, more than there was when he first woke up. At first, it had been barren. A cavity in the earth, a _warzone_ . But now, there were stilts holding up platforms, and the beginnings of buildings slowly starting to form. It was ugly. But, it was the beginning of something, something good that Wilbur both wanted to see and, oddly, wanted to _burn_. 

He doesn’t know why the urge to strike a match to the structures in front of him rises. It’s not often, but when it comes it is a burning, deep desire. 

He doesn’t act on it. He doesn’t want to. 

Wilbur wonders what happened, exactly, that led up to this crater. He knows there was an explosion, he remembers it, assumes he must have died in it. He knows it happened. but what was it before? 

A country, his mind supplies. 

A country? Wilbur likes countries, he thinks. He's always been interested in geography. What was its name? 

Name?

It’s on the tip of his tongue. 

He stares hard at the wooden platforms that make up this tiny country, watches as a few figures show up in the distance, heading for it. His gaze wanders all over - to the torches placed everywhere, to the half finished home to the side, to the other buildings, outside of this place, out in the distance, and Wilbur remembers now. 

L’manberg. 

He is in L’Manberg. 

* * *

With the memory of L’Manberg, comes a whole host of others. 

The revolution. _Explosions, fires, a room full of chests with a single button - down with the revolution, it was never meant to be - a duel, and a deal to secure their independence._

He remembers that stupid van. His precious van, that he and the other revolutionaries holed up in during the war.

He remembers Tommy, his brother, his baby brother, who he loved to bully so much. He remembers Tubbo, who was Tommy’s best friend, who he remembers building just about everything. 

And then he remembers the election. People cheering for him - he isn’t sure why. He remembers the ravine again, living there with Tommy, but still can’t put a name to it. 

He remembers Sally, too - remembers the fun he had with her, but not much else. Just the memory of her smiling face and rosy cheeks, and something else in his mind tugs at that but he isn’t sure what.

There’s more. There’s more he’s missing. 

What is he missing?

* * *

Wilbur is sitting in that cave again, watching New L’manberg rise from the ashes, when someone finds him. 

“Wilbur?” a disbelieving voice says, and when he turns back, he’s met with familiar blue eyes. Tommy. Tommy. It’s Tommy.

“Hello, Tommy,” he greets, smiling at his brother. His baby brother. 

“Will, how- I-” Tommy struggles to get his words out, looking incredulous for a reason Wilbur can’t seem to place. “Why the fuck is your skin gray?”

Well, that wasn’t the question he expected. 

Laughter bubbles out of his lips nonetheless, and he’s still chuckling when he answers, “I’m dead, you idiot, I’m a ghost.”

His brother embraces him in a hug and Wilbur hugs back, though he feels like he should be confused about it. He doesn’t know why. 

Tommy insists he meet up with everyone else. Wilbur indulges him. 

Tubbo is first, and that meeting is fine, if awkward. The teenager can’t look him in the eyes and Wilbur wants to ask what was wrong, but something makes him bite his tongue. That meeting ended quickly. 

When he sees Techno, he’s quickly embraced, and remembers _yes, he’s my little brother too_ , and hugs him back tight. Wilbur is suddenly in a vivid memory, seeing Technoblade - little brother, just barely - and sparring with him, wallowing in his defeat every match. He remembers an armory, belonging to Techno, stocked up with every sort of supply one could imagine. In the present, he banters with Techno and teases Tommy, liking the familiarity it brings. 

The meeting with Phil is… tense. 

Wilbur remembers Phil quite well. He remembers growing up, being protected by the man he calls his father, being protected even once he grew up, before he left. Left, to start his own country, become a president. He _was_ president for a while, to be fair. 

But Wilbur also remembers Phil killing him, the memory shooting into his mind suddenly. He didn’t die in the explosion like he had assumed. He remembers begging, _pleading_ , for his father to kill him with his own sword, grabbing at the older man’s arms and screaming in his face. He remembers the blinding pain of the sword in his chest, tears sliding down his cheeks as he died in Phil’s arms. Remembers the words he spoke - “I was the traitor, Phil. It was me and Technoblade, we were the traitors.”

He can’t bring himself to hug his father, instead smiling at him tightly. It hurts too much. 

Even if he wanted to die, begged for it even, it hurts too much. 

Wilbur meets Fundy and Niki next. 

When Tommy leads him into the small bakery, somehow untouched by the war, he’s hit with the smell of cooked bread. He likes it. It’s familiar.

He knows Niki, already. He always remembered her. Wilbur already knows how kind she is, the sound of her sweet voice and charming smile - and, on the flipside, he remembers dead eyes, a flat tone, and a vicious glare that came from her too. He hugs her excitedly, despite the unease emanating from her. 

And Fundy.. Fundy. 

His son. His pride and joy. 

“My son,” he mumbles, quickly hugging him. He _knows_ this is his son, he remembers watching Fundy grow up, he knows, he knows. 

But Fundy pushes him away slowly, with a weak smile. He’s uneasy too. 

Wilbur doesn’t understand. 

* * *

Tubbo puts him to work, helping rebuild New L’Manberg. Wilbur doesn’t question it - hell, he had offered his labor in the first place, anyway - and does his best. He makes himself a small library at some point, collecting old books he keeps finding in the ruins. They help him remember things. 

He thinks sometimes about the goat hybrid he saw, back in the field he had been in before this. He knows that man had something to do with all this, he’s sure of it, but he doesn’t know why or how. He still doesn’t know exactly what had happened. There’s holes in his memory. No one will tell him, though, they all avert their gaze and avoid him whenever he starts asking questions. He _wants_ to know. He just can’t quite put everything together. 

It was like an itch, scratching at his brain, but he couldn’t quite find it, couldn’t quite put it to rest. it was on the tip of his tongue, just barely there, enough to tell him he _knew_ , the information was there, but he couldn’t reach it. 

He never could.

* * *

_“There was a traitor of L’Manberg, Phil. He- Phil, he had a saying. Do you know what it was?”_ _  
_

_Phil shifts. “No, I don’t.”_ _  
_

_Wilbur turns to the button, a sardonic grin stretching his features. “Well, the saying, Phil, the saying was…”_ _  
_

_He reaches out his hand, fingers just barely caressing the button._

_“It was never meant to be.”_ _  
_

_The button is pushed._

_Manberg - no, it was L’Manberg once more - is blown to smithereens._


End file.
